


give up your heart left broken (let the mistake pass on)

by mouwwie



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander is suicidal, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Musical Appearances, jamilton if you squint, this is mildly self-indulgent, too much drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26606128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouwwie/pseuds/mouwwie
Summary: "Is there a particular reason that you're bleeding out on my bedroom floor?" Jefferson raised his eyebrow, trying not to give in to the nervous laughter that threatened to escape his throat."Well, it's a little too cold to be bleeding outside?"Or, Hamilton goes to Thomas's house after the duel with Burr because there is no one else to turn to.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 155





	give up your heart left broken (let the mistake pass on)

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Give up your heart left broken (let the mistake pass on)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/689212) by TomyRiddle (me). 



> TW for suicidal thoughts and behavior, possibly counts as suicide attempt?? idk this is a mess  
> In this AU Eliza left with children and never came back  
> There is no logic in this whatsoever, deal with it  
> Idk if it's graphic but Alexander gets shot - surprise, surprise

Alexander imagined his death so many times, still, standing on a field, watching a gun against his chest was surreal, and it kicked out all the air from his lungs.

Was it going to end just like this?

One way or another, there was John, waiting on the other side. There was his son Phillip on the other side, his mother waiting on the other side, Washington watching from the other side. Chill morning wind stung his face but he didn't let the tears fall down. Not now, not when the time slowed down in its mercy to help him cross the line.

Hamilton raised his chin with stubborn pride and aimed at the sky, which was painted bloody by the dawn. Terror flamed in Burr's eyes, and Alexander gave him a bitter smile.

Right before the bullet entered his body.

He expected anything: immediate death, dull flash and then darkness, but not sharp awakening pain that made him open his eyes and yelp, falling on his back. Alexander vaguely acknowledged a hot liquid stream across his shoulder, and managed to stop a nervous giggle, which only would've caused more pain — Burr missed.

Hamilton didn't want to stand up or even move — maybe if he plays dead they'll let him stay and bleed until it's over? But someone's voice — most likely his doctor — brought him back to reality, and burning in his shoulder knocked him out. Apparently, someone helped him back on his legs, and Alexander waved off their speech, like words were merely flies. He glanced at his opponent for the last time.

"I'm satisfied," he heard Aaron's lifeless voice. His dark skin was ominously colored by dawn's red light, and the gun in his hand was shaking. Myriads of feelings hid in his eyes — guilt, confusion and a silent question.

What's next?

Alexander blinked in haze, trying to keep himself together. The field was still empty, the only thing that changed was a blood spot on the ground and a couple of footprints.

Perhaps, right here his son was also bleeding, begging for help.

Because Alexander was the one to give him the gun.

Alexander's eyes burned when he remembered Eliza's fierce eyes and her figure in a mournful dressing, as she was entering the carriage and going away. It didn't matter for how long she'll be away.

There was no place in her life for Alexander anymore.

He was slightly shaking, his head was spinning as the bleeding was never stopped, leaving damp spots on his clothing, which was ruined anyway. He followed the doctor away, trying not to think and letting himself to get lost in the haze that swallowed his mind.

Much later he found himself standing on the street, running away from the medical help. It was still early in the morning but the sun was already up, barely visible behind the city’s roofs, and even this dim yellow light that contoured the house figures, hurt Hamilton’s eyes. He limped down the street, and his thoughts that were blinded by adrenalin before came back. His shoulder still hurt severely with every movement but this time it was just an unpleasant reminder that Alexander was still alive.

It would be stupid to deny that he accepted his fate, and, standing there, face to face with Burr, he was ready to go. He wanted to - he lost too much, too many people were waiting on the other side. Now, when the first fervor vanished, when he was somewhat drunkenly swaying, stepping over the stonework, he was almost disappointed that he wasn’t there, bloodying the ground and staring blindly at the sky. 

This way he wouldn’t be wandering through the empty streets, thinking where he was supposed to go. Alexander didn’t even think about his own house - it was cold and empty, without any children’s laughs and tender voice of his wife. There was no warm fireplace and there was no smell of the fresh bread anymore. His death was waiting for him there, even before he bleeds out on his cold floor, his thoughts would devour him like vultures would devour an old corpse. 

But what now? Nobody would open the door, he isn’t a wanted guest anywhere in this city, especially in this unholy hour. He winced when his whole body shot with pain again and mildly regretted not getting help from his doctor. Why did he invite one, anyway?

Well, it was more of a formality.

The doctor, Alexander himself, even Burr, — everyone knew that Hamilton went there to die.

Alexander’s breath hitched as he swallowed bitterly.

Did John know that he was going towards his own death?

Did Philip? 

He swayed again, harder this time, and Alexander heavily leaned on the nearest wall, losing himself for a moment in its coldness. He needed help, he acted up because of his foolish pride, once again, and now, when the perspective of bleeding out on the street was as near as ever, he thought if he even wanted to look for help. Did he even have a shot to cling on or should he throw it away?

Alexander flinched away from the wall, stepping back, and tried to clean up his vision. He glanced at the building and froze, stunned by his mixed feelings.

Oh, he knew this house well.

Thomas Jefferson’s house.

Alexander ran away from a lot of things in this life. For instance the consequences of his actions, bare necessities of his body or his feelings. Somehow, in the case of Jefferson, he ran from all three of those. 

He wished he never met Jefferson, never took his hand, feeling it tense under the touch.

He wished he never debated Jefferson, watching the manic sparkle in his eyes and his elegant movements that cut air like a blade.

He wished he never gave his vote to Jefferson, who he seemed to despise, giving in to his feelings for the first and the last time.

He wished a lot.

Maybe, it was the damned haze, the amount of blood he lost, or maybe it was his stupid heart that acted out.

What he knew was that the door wasn’t locked, so he fell into Thomas’s house, feeling the wound worsen. It made him walk further and collapse, accompanied by a woman's scream, who supposedly was a servant.

Alexander wasn’t out for long - soon he lifted his head. He was turned on his back, he was in a different room, and a dim light from the curtains contoured Thomas’s figure. His hands were on his knees but shivering shoulders gave away his tension.

“Awake?” he mused, frowning.

Alexander made an incoherent sound, listening to his body. Surprisingly, his shoulder was treated, probably, someone else’s work. He wanted to laugh when he thought of Jefferson, doing the dirty work.

“Care to explain?” with obvious irritation Jefferson asked, emerging from the darkness. He was domestic, sleepy but alert, with a huge mess of his curls.

“What?” Alexander said stupidly, glaring around.

"Is there a particular reason that you're bleeding out on my bedroom floor?" Jefferson raised his eyebrow, trying not to give in to the nervous laughter that threatened to escape his throat.

"Well, it's a little too cold to be bleeding outside?"

Jefferson pinched his nose, sighing.

“Okay, I’ll paraphrase: why are you here, bleeding on the brink of dawn, and why are you in my bedroom?”

Alexander averted his eyes. He didn’t want pity but there was no witty answer in his mind.

“I don’t have anyone else.”

Thomas’s eyes, already pitch black, darkened, and he turned away.

“I’m sorry that you lost your son.”

Hamilton didn’t reply, staring blindly at the ceiling, feeling the black hole in his chest eating him alive. What he was supposed to say? He was sorry too.

He was sorry that he gave a gun to his child.

He was sorry that he published the Pamphlet.

He was sorry that he ever opened that godforsaken door for Maria Reynolds. 

He was sorry too.

Ignoring the awkward silence, Jefferson continued.

“I think Eliza could forgive you.”

Alexander looked at him for the first time in a while and let himself enjoy the moment. He was supposed to give Thomas what he wanted to hear - hope, sadness, grief, maybe. But they were already way too intimate, Alexander was bleeding out, and no one will hear him behind these curtains. Alexander wanted to be honest today, even to himself.

“I don’t think so. Our roads fell apart long ago. She deserves better.”

Thomas huffed, and there was no judgement or mock in this sound. Just honesty, clear as daylight.

“You never know love before you lose it.”

Alexander thought of Martha Jefferson.

“I don’t have any shots left,” he said after a pause. “Maybe, I should give up.”

Jefferson pursed his lips and lifted himself, and his eyes were full of something painful and alive.

“Then take mine.”

Alexander shot him a questioning look.

“You’re brilliant, I’d be a fool to deny,” his eyes sparkled with fire, not dangerous, warm and promising. “I won’t let you waste yourself in grief for something that’s long over. America needs whatever you have to say.”

Alexander breathed a small laugh but let a small sprout of hope break out of his heart. Maybe, he would stay for a bit longer.

Sun’s golden light painted the bedroom yellow. Alexander fell back, exhausted, as his eyelids became heavier.

“Sleep, Hamilton,” Thomas sighed, leaving the room, “you'll need it.”

A halo of Thomas’s curls glowed like the sun. He stood up in the doorframe, and his gaze warmed Alexander, giving him the hope he craved for.

“Alexander,” Hamilton said. “It’s Alexander now.”

Thomas laughed, and this sound filled the room like a crook. The door closed, leaving Hamilton in the soft twilight, which immediately calmed him down completely.

Maybe he had something to cling on.

Hope, for instance.


End file.
